


Hide and Seek, Found and Lost

by alba17



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M, genre: romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-18
Updated: 2010-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/pseuds/alba17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson looks for his journal and discovers a new, unexpected aspect of his relationship with Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide and Seek, Found and Lost

**Author's Note:**

> I think these characters are in the public domain, but I own nothing.  
> Written for the prompt, "Holmes hides Watson's journal." I seem to be fascinated with Watson succumbing to Holmes' charms.

Watson was quite put out. He and Holmes had just finished a case and he needed to make some notes in his journal before he forgot the details. He'd scoured their rooms, picking up every random item, of which there were many. Irene's portrait was upright today, he noticed, and he determinedly didn't touch it. He came up with nothing.

Damn Holmes for being a complete pig.

Then he found the drawing, amongst a pile of papers, including a bill overdue for two months and a diagram demonstrating how a burglar had recently broken into the Bank of London. The drawing was a simple, yet surprisingly accurate charcoal rendering of himself, his shirt open, head thrown back, laughing, his hat tipped at a rakish angle. He looked alive and vigorous, happy even.

He smiled, smoothing out the paper with his hand. Holmes had untold talents.

At that moment, the man himself emerged from his bedroom, looking rumpled and sleepy. His hair was tousled, shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He looked altogether dishevelled, and yet Watson felt warmth spreading in his belly at the sight of the smooth, tan chest peeking through the white shirt.

"Ah, Watson." Holmes ran a hand through his hair, throwing it into even greater disarray. "What are you up to?" He threw himself heavily onto the sofa, limbs landing carelessly, half sprawling. "No. Let me guess," he said, pointing his index finger in the air, body suddenly at attention.

Watson sighed wearily.

"Entering our rooms, you immediately open the drawer of your desk, where you keep your journal and personal papers. You do not find the item you're looking for. You're frustrated and impatient to record your thoughts." Holmes got up and stood next to a round table scattered with books, touching the topmost one. "You look everywhere." Holmes noticed Irene's portrait and energetically smacked it face downward, eyes immediately sliding towards Watson's. "You cannot find it." Holmes circled Watson. "You rifle through someone else's private things." He put one hand on Watson's shoulder and the other hand on the drawing of Watson. The tip of his finger etched the charcoal outline of Watson's face on the drawing. "Things one might prefer to keep to oneself."

The hand on Watson's shoulder moved downward, the touch tentative yet warm through the cotton fabric of the shirt. There was something about Holmes' touch – it wasn't casual, but was full of intent. It trailed down his arm, over the hard muscle of the tricep, then loosely grasped his elbow, the fingers a gentle pressure around the bone.

Watson stood there frozen, unsure where Holmes was going with this or how to react. He didn't move when Holmes' fingers ran over his sensitive inner forearm, then came to rest on the bare skin of his wrist below the shirt sleeve, although he almost jerked at the sudden skin to skin contact. Fingers swept the thin skin inside his wrist, then slid dancing into his palm. With each brush of a fingertip across his hand, the skin became more sensitive, and Watson found himself leaning into Holmes. The blood pumped loudly in his head and he felt the stirrings of an erection. When Holmes finally flattened his palm against his, it seemed only natural for their fingers to lace together. Watson breathed out a sigh, whether it was from relief or excitement or tension, he couldn't really say.

"Nonetheless, you almost found it." Watson had almost forgotten what they had been talking about. Holmes fished the journal from under the drawing and presented it to Watson like a prize trophy landed after a difficult hunt. It had clearly been laid down splayed open. "All yours," Holmes said in a low voice, mouth closing on Watson's ear. "Your secrets are safe with me." His lips, warm and soft, tugged on Watson's ear lobe, with just a hint of teeth. "As mine are with you, I trust."

Watson closed his eyes at the intimate gesture, Holmes' body so heated and close, his shirt tantalizingly open. Tamping down any fears he might have, he decided to give in. Ignoring the proffered journal, he swept Holmes into his arms, the white cloth of the shirt smooth under his hands, the broad sweep of bare skin invitingly near. It felt good. He couldn't think of why he hadn't done this before. "You're incorrigible, you know that?"

"What's mine is yours, old boy." Holmes thrust his hips into Watson's, demonstrating what was on offer. "I assume the opposite is the case as well."

Resistance was futile - Watson could feel himself responding to Holmes' brazen grinding. He pushed a hand into Holmes' unruly dark hair, astonished at being able to touch it so freely. It felt as wonderful as he'd always imagined. He pulled Holmes flush up against his chest, rubbing his cheek against his. He didn't want this to stop, ever. "Under one condition." He nipped the tender skin under the other man's jaw, the roughness of the stubble under his lips new and thrilling.

Arching into Watson's touch, Holmes said in a gravelly voice, barely audible, "What's that?"

"You buy me a new set of shirts in the morning." And with that, Watson's mouth captured Holmes' open, inviting lips and shoved him back onto the sofa.

The journal lay open on the table, neglected, its pages crumpled. In a few moments, some energetic flailing from the sofa sent it flying into another pile of books, lost again amidst the chaos. The notes would have to await another session of hide and seek.


End file.
